


to dash yourself against the shore until you break

by axiomaticocelot



Category: Devilman (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, I would die for these boys and they need a break, M/M, Sickfic, Vomiting, general grossness you know how the flu goes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 14:07:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,589
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13591680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/axiomaticocelot/pseuds/axiomaticocelot
Summary: It feels inevitable that after months of tramping after him in all kinds of weather, Ryo would get sick.





	to dash yourself against the shore until you break

**Author's Note:**

> me ignoring my 16 bnha fics in the works: its debil man time babey  
> dedicated 2 my bestest friend whom i would die 4 thx for listening to me holler about devilman for hours

It feels inevitable that after months of tramping after him in all kinds of weather, Ryo would get sick.

 

Akira’s hunched over a demon carcass, ripping long strips of flesh from bone and delighting in the carnage; he’d be drenched in blood if it wasn’t for the pouring rain. As it is, the storm is coming down hard enough that Ryo staggers under the pressure of it, desperately attempting to get a good shot for his film research.

He pulls his long overcoat a little tighter, squints through the sheeting rain a little harder, and hopes that the footage will be clear enough to use. Really, though, it’s not like he hasn’t gotten this kind of hunting behavior on camera before-- Akira is absolutely thrilled by the notion of a hunt, feral and raw in his power. It’s a little hotter than Ryo thinks it should be, probably.

He steps forward to call out to Akira when a wave of dizziness washes over him, strong enough that he topples into the muddy grass. His chest feels like it’s being constricted by some kind of horrible snake, and there’s enough of a disconnect in his suddenly hazy mind that he can’t figure out how he got from standing to lying down.

Akira-- Amon-- Ryo doesn’t know who’s who, doesn’t quite understand who’s leaning over him and saying something that might be urgent but he can’t be bothered to parse. He’s shivering so hard that he feels come undone, flaking apart at the seams. Every single point of contact between him and Akira is blisteringly, painfully warm.

Ryo does the only thing he can, sensibly: he passes the fuck out.

 

\---

 

He surfaces briefly to the sensation of falling, a dizzying lurch in his stomach coupled with the roiling of nausea in his gut that has him gagging to keep from vomiting. Rain peppers his face with the force of a angry animal; there are too many stimuli for him to take in at once.

He moans pitifully, tucks his head closer to what might be a broad chest, and drops back into unconsciousness.

 

\---

 

Ryo aches, and not in a pleasant, well-worn way-- he feels like he’s burning from the inside out, like a demon has burrowed its way into his body and only just realized that it needs to vacate. There’s a light bouncing somewhere in the corner of his eye and that hurts, too, until it clicks off and he lets out a groan he hadn’t been aware he was holding back. Every single sense feels uncomfortably heightened; he catches every noise, every movement, every shift of light dancing on the backs of his eyelids.

The mattress dips under a heavy weight as somebody settles next to him. Ryo finds himself nosing blindly for comfort like a needy puppy. Everything feels too bright and too disjointed at the same time, except for the solid warmth pressed against his face.

“Ryo,” the warm solid mass says, gently. “Can you hear me?”

 _Akira._ The voice pierces through the fog clouding his head and he struggles to sit up until the warmth pushes him, firmly, back into the mattress. Ryo wheezes at it helplessly.

“Left… Akira… have to go--”

“Akira is fine, Ryo.” The warmth interrupts him, threading fingers through Ryo’s hair and tenderly, so tenderly, soothing him. Ryo wants to melt into the bed at the sensation. He can’t remember what he was thinking about before-- someone-- he forgot--

“How are you feeling?”

Ryo shivers, rasps, “Fine.”

The warmth leaves his hair to press itself against his forehead briefly. “Yeah, I don’t think so. You’re burning up.”

The dizzy confusion that plagued him since waking up recedes enough for him to recognize-- “Akira, I thought…” What did he think? A stranger was taking care of him? Of course Akira would be here; gentle, compassionate Akira, who tore flesh with the same ease he embraced Ryo. He feels a spike of muted emotion, but can’t quite place it. Fondness? Attachment?

Akira shifts away from him, moves to get up, and Ryo’s eyes shoot back open from the half-lidded drowsiness of before. Panic rushes through him.

“Don’t leave!”

His voice is so hoarse that it takes three attempts to project loud enough for Akira to hear him. He wants to cry. He wants to throw up. Mostly he wants to not be alone. He can’t imagine anything worse, right now, some kind of deep-seated agitation driving him to beg.

Akira pauses. It might be a second or an hour before he speaks. Ryo doesn’t know anymore.

“I’m just going to get some water, okay? I’ll be right back.”

“No, no, no, stay, please, come back,” Ryo babbles, a tinge of hysteria to his voice. “I don’t want to be by myself. Please.”

Akira sighs. Ryo blearily looks up and up and up at him, broad shouldered and impossibly soft. Whatever Akira sees in his desperate, feverish face makes up his mind; he slides back down onto the bed. The covers are heavy against his skin and Akira is a fixed, comforting form that he shuffles as close as he can get to. He squirms his way into the cage of the other’s obliging arms, sniffling quietly.

Akira draws him even closer, tucking Ryo’s head under his and twining their legs together. Ryo has never felt so helpless and so comforted at the same time. The last thing he feels before he drifts back to sleep is Akira pressing a soft kiss to the crown of his head.

\---

He’s alone when he wakes up.

The initial wave of panic is dispelled with a sudden rush of nausea that has him lurching to the side of the bed. There’s a trash can placed within easy reach that he just barely manages to pull to his mouth before he’s retching violently.

After what feels like an hour but couldn’t be more than five or six minutes, he slumps back, wiping at his mouth. He feels like shit: sour, aching, dizzy with weakness. Everything outside of his immediate vision swims threateningly in circles.

There’s a shuffle before the sleek white door to his apartment opens; Ryo can faintly hear the noise of (presumably) Akira moving around the kitchen. He only has to wait a minute before he can hear him stumping up the stairs to the bedroom, shoulding the door aside to reveal a tray laden with items: bottles of medicine, glasses of water, a bowl filled with some kind of food.

He brightens when he sees Ryo awake, if a little groggy. “Ryo! You look like shit.”

A stab of amusement makes its way through the dull throb. “Thanks. I feel it.”

Akira sets the tray down on the bed, sorts through the items. “I got you some things, cause, dude, I went to scope your kitchen and there’s like nothing there. How are you _alive?_ ”

Ryo snorts. “I manage.” Mostly through takeout and whatever he can get Jenny to make for him. He doesn’t know where she gets the ingredients.

“Sure you do,” he says, and his tone is patronizing. Ryo tries and fails to feel annoyed.

“Anyway,” he continues, “I got some medicine for you that you need to take. And soup.”

Soup? “I don’t need any.”

“Ryo,” Akira purses his lips. “Be a big boy and take the medicine.”

“No, I’m fine.”

_“Ryo Asuka.”_

“I’m fine!”

Akira doesn’t deign to reply, instead unscrewing the top on the (horrible) liquid medicine and filling the little plastic measuring cup. He presses the lip to Ryo’s mouth insistently.

Ryo begrudgingly opens his mouth and takes a swig of the foul tasting cherry monstrosity, sputtering indignantly at the aftertaste. Akira is beautiful in his smug victory. Ryo only hates him a little bit.

He says, “I made you chicken noodle soup.”

Ryo’s heart stutters in his chest. Akira made him food-- Akira, who couldn’t cook to save his life-- had made him something, because he was… concerned about him. Ryo doesn’t think anybody else has ever really done something for him, especially not without expecting something in return. (Jenny does things for him but Ryo doesn’t think she cares for him; respects him, maybe even admires him, but he’s never seen or heard a tender action from her in his entire life).

He sniffles, tries not to cough a lung up, fails miserably. It’s a terrible experience, only lessened by Akira rubbing a soothing circle into his shoulder. Suddenly, the heat in his chest has nothing to do with fever and everything to do with the stupid man perched in bed with him. Ryo feels like dying, actually. This must be what’s happening.

Akira shuffles the tray around, settling it firmly on Ryo’s lap, and tries to spoon feed him. He wants to be offended, truly, but the genuine concentration and care going into the act of hand feeding him keeps his mouth from running away from him. Akira’s tongue is poking out of the corner of his mouth, and he can see the barest hint of a fang pressing into his lip. Ryo accepts spoonful after spoonful of hot, fragrant soup, inoffensive enough to his stomach that he has no problem devouring most of it. All the same, his cough has flared back up with a vengeance by time he’s done. He feels like garbage. This is terrible.

On second thought, when he opens his arms up and Akira cheerfully slides under the covers to cuddle with him, being sick might not be so bad after all.


End file.
